


Ed Wood Was My Muse

by WildwingSuz



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-29
Updated: 2015-04-29
Packaged: 2018-03-26 07:15:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3841903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WildwingSuz/pseuds/WildwingSuz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scully loses a bet to Mulder and must watch 3 Ed Wood movies in a row, but the evening turns out a lot different than she expects.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ed Wood Was My Muse

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Notes: You may guess after reading this story that I'm a huge Ed Wood/“good bad” movie fan and you would be right. The first time I saw the scene with Mulder watching “Plan 9 From Outer Space” in “Hollywood A.D.” I just about melted right then and there; there was no better way to endear me to this show although, of course, I had been hooked from the first episode. This story came from the title, which my son Chris tossed out while driving around one day and idly discussing both Ed Wood and the X-Files (this is a normal thing with us, I assure you). 
> 
> The title is his, the story is mine.
> 
> Also, it helps if you've seen the Ed Wood movies I reference herein, but you can get the gist of the story without having actually seen them.
> 
> Spoilers: Not specified, not important. Let's say early Season 7 for those who must know.

Ed Wood Was My Muse  
by Suzanne L. Feld  
Rated PG

It all started with a stupid, silly bet.

You'd think by now that I'd know better than to make a bet against a man with an eidetic memory. But that didn't occur to me in the heat of battle, and we'd been arguing about it for two days before the gauntlet was thrown and the challenge laid down. We raised the stakes three times before we shook on it.

It was a good bet, too, with excellent payoffs that made us each want to win equally bad. If he lost, he had to give me a foot massage every weekday night for three weeks. If I lost, I had to watch three Ed Wood movies with him one after another, movies of his choosing though I did know enough about the (in)famous B-movie director to specify that it wouldn't be any of his later soft-porn stuff. I hadn't seen the movie about his life, but was somewhat familiar with Wood's long and checkered career thanks to a college roommate who was a fan of what she called “good bad” movies.

So when I was proven the loser, I did about everything I could to put off or get out of paying up on that bet without actually welshing, because I knew I would never hear the end of it. I'm not well-versed at procrastinating but I am a fast learner, and I did everything I could to put off this little corner of hell as long as I could.

That lasted exactly two weeks to the day. It was two Friday nights after the outcome of the bet and I was just about to walk out the door when I heard Mulder clear his throat behind me. “Ahem. Scully?”

I turned slowly, feeling the weight of my laptop case dragging at my shoulder like the rock of my conscience. “Mulder, it's Friday night and I have plans, I have to leave now,” I said, avoiding his eyes. As much as I didn't want to watch those stupid movies, it still bothered me to be putting off paying up on a bet honorably won. And as much as it annoyed me to admit it, he had won fair and square.

“Yes, you do,” he said, leaning back in the chair and propping his shoes on the edge of the desk. “Be at my place at six. I'll have takeout Chinese, you bring something to drink, and we should wrap up before midnight.”

“I can't tonight,” I said almost desperately. “I already told you, I'm going to--”

“No you're not,” he said calmly. “I called your mom earlier when you told me your plans for this evening, explained the situation, and she was aghast that you'd try to get out of paying off a bet.”

“You what!” I yelled, grabbing the handle of my laptop bag and setting it on the floor by my feet—it was hurting me even through the shoulder pad of my blazer. “How dare you call my--”

Still leaning back, looking as unconcerned as if we were discussing the merits of Ford vs. Chevy as we had last week when he told me he was considering buying a new car, he waved a hand dismissively. “I dare. You're not welshing on this bet, Scully. Nor putting it off until I forget it, because I don't forget anything.”

I was fuming on several levels and for several reasons, not the least of which was that he was, of course, right. After considering several responses I felt myself give up and gave in. “Fine. Tonight, your place, six.” I snapped. “But don't expect me to be pleasant, because that wasn't part of the bet!”

He grinned lazily at me and I felt my heart jolt despite myself. “You may have more fun than you expect, Scully,” he said, tilting forward so that his feet hit the floor. “Stranger things have happened. We of all people should know.”

I decided to cut my losses and grabbed the handle of my laptop case, turned, and stalked out of the office. I was so angry that I didn't take the elevator, instead climbing the stairs to the first floor despite the weight of the laptop bag and my sore feet thanks to a new pair of Cole Haans that I hadn't quite broken in before wearing them to work today. I had just enough time to go home, change, and stop at a liquor store on the way to Mulder's if I wanted to make it on time. And despite my foot-dragging up to this point, I was nothing if not punctual.

***

I knew she was annoyed all to hell and back and despite my danger of pushing her too far I couldn't resist a little chain-yanking when she arrived at two minutes after six. I'm nothing if not a gracious host when I feel like it so I had the food already laid out on the coffee table, and I'd even cleaned up the place a bit. 

Opening the door to her thunderous face above a brown paper bag I remarked, “You're late, Scully. Not still trying to get out of this, are you?”

She glared up at me as she stalked past, setting the bag on the dining room table and taking off her black cloth jacket with short, jerky motions. Tossing it at me, she snapped, “You know, I did bring my gun.” I noticed that she was wearing sneakers instead of her regular heels and her head barely came to my shoulder; she wore heels so often that sometimes I forgot how short she really was.

I grinned down at her as I hung her jacket on the coat rack. “It's not going to be that bad. If nothing else I know you like the company.”

She snorted in a very unladylike way but didn't comment. From the bag on the table she removed three bottles and a half-gallon of Sara Lee Strawberry Cheesecake ice cream. I felt my eyebrows go up; I had never seen Scully have regular ice cream unless it was some type of life-altering event, like her cancer or Melissa's death. And I knew it was her guilty pleasure. As she crumpled the bag and carried it and the ice cream into the kitchen I picked up each bottle, feeling my brows climbing higher as I read each one. “Uh, Scully, if you're going to drink even half of all this I'm going to ask for your car keys now.”

She went to the coat rack, got them out of her jacket, and tossed them on the table; I was serious and pocketed them. Then she went back into the kitchen and came out carrying two tumblers and two wineglasses. “C'mon, Mulder, bring the hooch and let's get this over with,” she said. “I'm hungry and I'm going to get drunk.”

I began to question my wisdom in holding her to paying off the bet. If she hated to watch these movies so much that she'd rather get shitfaced perhaps I should let her out of it. On the other hand I had never seen nor even imagined Scully drunk. This could be fun, or it could be a disaster. There was only one way to find out.

She was already sitting on the couch and digging into the food, spooning shrimp-fried rice onto her plate. I saw her eyes on the three videotapes stacked on the end of the coffee table; I owned two of them, but had to hit three Blockbusters and two indie stores before finding the third. I was going to start her out gentle and end with the worst/best, depending on how you saw it, and knew my idea was good when I realized that she might be drunk by the time the third one played. And I was not going to let her pass out and get out of it that way.

“Have you heard of any of these?” I asked as I walked around the table and sat next to her, gesturing at the tapes. “I also thought you might want the option of replacing any of these with 'Plan 9' if you'd rather watch that but you've seen it already, right?”

“Sort of. Went to a party once in high school that turned out to be everyone sitting around getting stoned and watching it. I didn't smoke pot but got a contact high and ended up more or less watching it as well. Don't remember much other than how outright stupid it was.”

She seemed pretty intent on the food, helping herself from the half-dozen white cardboard containers. Her hair was pulled back into a high tail with a black fuzzy thing and she was dressed in a lacy little white sweater and faded jeans. The hairstyle and shirt really showed off her neck and shoulders, something I didn't normally pay attention to since there were other parts of her that usually caught my attention—so sue me, I'm a normal healthy male animal. The sweater was rather low-cut and I couldn't help but notice a bit more cleavage than usual. As I got up to put the first tape in, it hit me: could she be trying to distract me? If so, she should have known how well I could multi-task; I could watch both her and the movies at the same time, no sweat.

***

Now that I was here, the evening of watching bad movies didn't seem quite so bad. Mulder could be a good host when the mood took him, and tonight he'd gone all out. But I wasn't about to let him know that. Of course I'd already had one glass of the expensive Australian shiraz I'd brought with dinner and I'm sure that helped immensely.

We were at least halfway through the first movie and finished eating when I realized that I was actually having fun. I had assumed that we'd sit and watch the movies like they were normal ones, but Mulder added his own disparaging comments and encouraged me to do the same. Despite myself I was laughing at his remarks as well as at the movie which, while as bad as I'd expected, also had a charming—innocence? optimism?—that actually made it somewhat watchable. The skeletons wearing wigs had me in stitches, and when the “ghost” played a “spirit trumpet” which was simply the instrument suspended on visible wire against a sheet, I cracked up completely. And it wasn't just the wine, though we finished the bottle with the movie.

“Now that wasn't so bad, was it?” Mulder said as he got up to change tapes and I began to gather the dishes and carryout cartons. 

I hemmed and hawed, not wanting to let him know that I was actually enjoying myself. “Could have been worse, I suppose.” I got a big grin in response, although there was no comment. He may be many things, but Mulder is not stupid when it comes to reading between the lines.

He helped me clean up after the tapes were switched, then we settled back down with the second bottle on the table and the next movie he'd chosen in the VCR. As we sat down on the couch he asked, all too casually, “So, when are we going to break into that ice cream?”

“I don't know about you, but I'm full,” I replied as the opening credits played. “How about a little bit later?”

Fifteen minutes later the movie was paused and we were in the kitchen getting ice cream. He was like a kid, bugging and nudging until he got what he wanted, but then I've known that about him for many years so it's not something I can bitch about now. 

Back in the living room we sat down on the couch again. He paused and looked over at me, remote in one hand and heaped bowl in the other. “Is this as bad as you were afraid it would be, Scully?” he asked. He was very still, gazing at me with no hint of emotion.

“Nowhere near,” I said breezily, licking at the spoon after having already finished my one scoop. “Either the movies aren't as bad as I thought, or it's the booze. I'd put my money on the booze.”

“How about the company?” he asked, and now I saw the worry in his eyes.

“The company, and his movie commentary, are actually making the evening,” I heard myself say. “Maybe it's not just the booze, but don't tell anyone.” So much for not giving away too much.

He chuckled, shaking his head, and turned to the TV, raising the remote to start the tape again. I continued gazing at him, thinking yet again what a handsome man he was as I watched him spooning in ice cream. I got so used to seeing him in suits and button-down shirts that now, in casual clothes—jeans and a plain gray t-shirt--I ended up looking at him twice. He was sitting only a few inches from me, slumped down with his big bare feet braced on the end table we'd just eaten from, which I tried not to think about. What would he do if I scooted closer and leaned my head on his shoulder? I was tempted, but had learned my lesson about playing with fire very young. He might have done nothing, taken it as just as the gesture of friendship I meant it as but on the other hand, I could end out the night in his bed which was not my intention. Were this a normal date between two consenting adults it might not be a bad thing but in our case it could be a disaster. 

I was distracted from my thoughts as the movie continued, and it was either better or worse than the previous one, depending. Mulder soon had me in stitches with his snarky comments and even when he didn't, the movie cracked me up. Watching poor Bela Lugosi pretending that a giant fake octopus was attacking him was enough to have me lost in tears of laughter, not to mention the giant guy who couldn't act but desperately tried to.

It wasn't until this movie was over that I realized that we hadn't cracked the second bottle, and that was partly because I really wasn't in the mood for it. “Mulder, you wouldn't have to have anything other than alcohol around here to drink, would you?” I asked, standing and stretching. “I'm really not in the mood for hard liquor.”

He grinned up at me. “Does this mean I'm not going to get to see you shitfaced drunk?”

“It does. But I'm thirsty, what do you have?”

“Not much, but I think there's a six-pack of wine coolers in the back of the 'fridge somewhere if you want them.”

I got up to go look and take a quick bathroom break while he went to switch the tapes. Sure enough, there was a quartet of Bacardi Berry Blast wine coolers at the back of the bottom shelf. Carrying them into the living room I asked, “So, when did you develop this sudden craving for wine coolers?”

“Not me,” he avowed. “Langley brought them over because someone had given them to him and he didn't want them. I have no clue who actually bought them.”

“Uh-huh,” I said with open derision in my voice as I cracked the first one. “Going to join me?”

He shrugged as he sat down, I noticed, a few inches closer to me than he had been before we'd both gotten up. Our shoulders were nearly brushing. “Why not. So, what do you think of the movies so far?”

“I can't say they're not as bad as I thought, but they are far more amusing than I expected,” I admitted as he took one. “The fact that we can heckle them makes all the difference in the world.”

“Geez, Scully, that's the fun of bad movies,” he said, turning to face me and putting his arm along the back of the couch behind me, the other holding a wine cooler on his thigh. “Haven't you ever seen Mystery Science Theater? MST3k?”

I shook my head. “I've heard of it, but was never interested in seeing it. Although I might, now.”

“I'll keep that in mind the next time I rent one,” he said with a smile. He was so close that another two inches and he could have kissed me, and I forced myself to sit still and not lean away because I knew I'd never hear the end of it if I did. When and how had he gotten this close to me? I didn't think I'd drunk that much. “But for now, you are being treated to the ultimate bad movie of all time, worse than 'Manos the Hands of Fate' or even, Heaven help us all, 'Attack of the Killer Tomatoes'.”

He turned back, moving his arm away from the back of the couch and to his side so that his shoulder brushed mine, then raised the remote and hit play. Just a short time later I said, “This was his first movie, wasn't it?” Between the voiceover regarding a transvestite in angora, the stock footage of stampeding buffalo that had no reason the be in the film, and the nonsensical dream sequence of a tree trunk in someone's living room, I was totally baffled as to the point of the movie.

“It was. Trust me, it only gets better from here.”

***

I was tickled half to death that Scully was actually enjoying our bad movie night. I certainly hadn't wanted to torture her; I'd hoped that she'd like them once we got going with the wisecracks and to my relief, she clearly did. Although she didn't do as many as me, she did get in the spirit of things and got off a few good ones here and there. 

But it was less than half an hour into the last one when I felt a light touch on my upper arm and looked over to see that Scully had fallen asleep, the side of her head just barely touching me. I moved my arm around her and tugged her towards me, and with a sigh she leaned full against my side, her head resting against my shoulder. There was no way I was going to wake her up despite my vow from earlier; this wasn't the same situation I had thought we'd be in by now. I watched the rest of the movie with her snuggled against me, her breath soft against my neck and one hand resting palm-up against my thigh. When it finally ended I was nearly asleep myself; without being able to heckle or have an audience for my comments it really was a terribly dull movie although, of course, I would never admit that to her.

I slid my arm under her legs and lifted us both off the couch, carrying her into the bedroom. I hadn't made the bed this morning before I got up—luckily I had changed the sheets the day before--so it wasn't much to slide her beneath the top sheet and blanket, then gently unsnap and unzip her jeans. She'd already taken her shoes off some time ago, so I knew she'd be comfortable enough for the night.

I pulled the blanket up to her shoulders and couldn't resist leaning down to kiss her forehead, brushing my hand over the thick, silky-soft hair spread across my pillow. She was so out of it that she just made a soft mumbling noise and turned on her side, burying her face in the pillow and bringing both hands up under her chin. It was all I could do not to join her there; even if my intentions were platonic I had no idea what she'd do if she woke up with both of us in the same bed, fully dressed or not. Tonight wasn't the night to find out, either—I figured I'd pushed her far enough. Quietly getting a pair of sweats out of my dresser and grabbing the other pillow from the bed, I left her to her dreams and went to reacquaint myself with the couch.

***

I had ended up in Mulder's bed, although not quite the way I might have imagined. I awoke in the middle of the night just long enough to shed my jeans and snuggle back down into the pillow that smelled so wonderfully like him, and it crossed my mind to invite him back to his own bed. Purely platonic, of course, but by the time the thought crossed my mind I had gone back to sleep. 

The next morning I got up and tiptoed to the bathroom while he was still snoring on the couch, then very quietly let myself out without waking him after finding my keys on the dining room table. I was back fifteen minutes later and he was still out like a light under the Indian blanket, but I knew that wouldn't last long once I had everything ready.

Sure enough, the moment I started the tape his eyes lifted slowly, and a grin split his face when he saw me sitting on the floor with my back against the couch. “Morning,” he rumbled, propping himself up on one arm and rubbing at his eyes with the other. “Is that coffee I smell?”

I pointed to the coffee table, which I had pushed aside just enough that I could sit with my back a few inches from his t-shirt-clad chest. “And doughnuts,” I said, smiling back at him then gesturing across the room. “And, best of all...”

His eyes went to the TV where two gravediggers were having a rather nonsensical conversation over an open grave in black and white. He then looked back to me, and we grinned at each other. Lifting my coffee to him, I couldn't resist saying, “To Edward D. Wood, Jr.”

He tapped the rim of his Starbucks venti cup against mine. “Who better?”

“Who indeed?” I agreed. I curled my legs under me, leaned an arm back on the couch next to his chest, and together we watched the movie unfold. When he all-too-casually curled his arm around my shoulders I smiled and leaned my head back against his chest. No matter what had brought us here, a silly bet or Ed Wood himself, I was happy where I was and, just for the moment, content to have it that way.

finis


End file.
